


We Are Shadows

by turnyourankle



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Apocalypse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-09
Updated: 2009-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the world ends, the boys are overseas touring Europe: this is the tale of those left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> LJ Repost: Apocalypse fic, very, very loosely based on the novel [On The Beach](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Beach_\(novel\)). I started working on this [last year](http://turnyourankle.livejournal.com/262443.html#cutid5), so obviously, I am a very fast writer.
> 
> Also, this is obviously extremely fake, and completely made up.

_This is an automated broadcast._

 

 

*

 

 

Jamia doesn't know what's going on--what happens, really, after. No one does. This is the one thing that no one speaks of. There have been no bulletins, no television or radio broadcasts detailing the decomposition of flesh and civilization. Only on the preparations before and until then. Appointed hospitals where _options_ are appointed.

She can imagine that the governments overseas are doing something similar--providing options. But she doesn't know. Not for sure. And she doesn't want to--doesn't want to think about _options_ and what the boys are doing overseas, if they're turned away at hospitals or if the embassies are in charge. If there are supplies for them, too. She can't think about it.

The image of a slumped body, the reality of bones and muscle and skin breaking down, deteriorating; it all makes her stomach turn. And the attachment of a familiar face--one that would rub along the line of her ribs and blink sleepily across the breakfast table; one whose hair would clog up the sink and spill dye everywhere, would storm outside to smoke in the middle of arguments only to come back in with frozen fingers--it's not something she can visualize intellectually.

And yet, just before drifting off to sleep, she's sees abandoned hotels, out of food and staff, and Frank's head resting on a pillow, not one of theirs and not on their bed, lips dry and chapped; skin red and irritated. His mood when he's sick, but worse. Heavy toxic fog over crowded nameless streets, seeping in through poorly isolated windows.

She wonders, briefly, if Mikey feels the same. If he sees Gerard when Alicia snuggles in tightly, or when he sleeps. If he feels guilty for not being there with them, for his broken arm. Or if he's happy to be home, and guilty about that. Or Krista, in Portland, and Lyn in LA. If she's alone in this; the ghost images, almost like premonitions, only worse.

Mostly though, mostly she doesn't think about it at all. It's eerie how comfortable she is with the solitude, but she's gotten used to it. Even if Frank were coming back he wouldn't be home by now.

He wouldn't even be home by the time the wave's supposed to hit the east coast.

 

 

*

 

 

The airport is so crowded Jamia can't move, arm hooked with Alicia's. Her eyes are stuck to the crowd, almost expecting Frank's familiar face to be on this side of the fence. She doesn't want to attach stories to all the people that are bumping into her and Alicia, about whether their loved ones will come home or not.

"Brian, here talk to Mikes, I've gotta keep my eyes peeled you're stressing me the fuck out." Alicia wrestles her cell into Mikey's hand. She leads the way to the gates with the flights from Europe, elbows digging through the crowd and slicing the static in the air. Mikey's cast lets them through easily.

"Yeah, we found it," Mikey says into the phone. "Dunno when the flights are supposed to be coming in though."

There are waves of people and announcements, the space never emptying despite all the arrivals and departures.

They stay long after the last flight has arrived. The airport is still full when they leave.

 

 

*

 

 

"According to schedule, they should be in Spain now. They could have continued south..." Brian doesn't move as he speaks, lips almost still.

"He'd have come back," she says, the muscles in her face stiff. As if it's the only truth she knows and has been trying to convince herself otherwise. _Maybe not, maybe he'd want to spend his last days in Europe. Find a hooker or two. Propose to Gerard._ It would be funny, but it's not. "They all would've."

He doesn't say anything. She didn't realize she wanted him to argue with her until she feels heavy. Her shoulders succumb to the pressure, slumping and the couch seems deeper somehow, sucking her to the ground.

"I was thinking," Brian says, wiping his forehead. "I was thinking about heading south."

"Yeah?" She's tired, and feels weak, she doesn't know if it's a side effect of the radiation or just her brain fucking with her. It doesn't even matter.

"Yeah." Brian drinks again, and rubs his wrist. Jamia watches his fingers as he tells her his plan. Packing a backpack and driving down with cash. Just going as far south as he can. It's insane, unworkable, to think that he might outrun the wind, outrun the fucking air. But she doesn't say anything. It doesn't matter where it happens, anyway, if he decides to stay or not. It's his choice.

"Whaddya think?"

"It's not my place to say."

He nods as if it were the right answer, as if it were code for approval.

She hadn't realized how close he was sitting until he leaned over and kissed her, lips wet and hand dry as it cups her face, palm rubbing against her jaw.

He tastes of smoke, and the artificial sweetness of coke. She doesn't want to make the comparison, but it's there: the stubble reminding her of Frank when he's home, and the same bitter cigarette aftertaste.

It's safe, and familiar in an unfamiliar way; rough hands where they don't usually are, and she can almost pretend, almost.

There's the sharp tangy taste of blood from his cut lip, from the broken glass he drank from. It doesn't matter anymore.

Brian's fingers wearing into an awkward spot on her hip, and it's too real to pretend, her skin able to tell the difference.

She takes off her shirt, and urges him on when he hesitates, her bitten nails dragging along his belly, digging in whenever he stops.

She bites his lip, letting him do everything differently from what she's used to.

 

 

*

 

 

Jamia breaks every speed limit driving home.

She waits for her hands and feet to betray her and have her swerve off the road, or into a car or a tree.

 

 

*

 

 

_Your call can not be connected. Please try again later._

Jamia can't even get it to ring anymore, no signals coming through, only the electronic voice echoing.

She tries calling him, again and again, until her fingers are numb from the dialing, and everything is a combination of numbers and key tones. A wave of nausea hits her, and she blames the guilt.

He'd have called if he could, she knows, but she has to keep trying, the gnawing in her chest growing more intense.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Strangely enough, the days keep passing. The clock ticking away mercilessly.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Jamia works late, having dismissed everyone a few days earlier. Chris had been staring out the window, and she caught Alex crying in the bathroom. The paychecks would keep going through for as long as the system allowed.

There isn't much to do; orders had stopped coming in. There was still a backlog, and Jamia wasn't above wrapping and stacking packages, the repetitive motion and the silence calming her down.

There's a knock on the front door, Alicia's figure visible behind the glass. Jamia opens it with a stack of t-shirts in her arms, letting Alicia in. She goes back to the packing tables, allowing Alicia to follow.

"I was just wondering if you'd grace me and Mikes with your presence at dinner tonight?"

"Came out all the way to Jersey just to ask that, huh?" The packing peanuts spill over the table, and Alicia picks at one, squeezing it tightly.

Alicia shrugs.

"I had to hit up Costco before they close down all the roads."

Jamia snorts. She says, "And who's gonna do that?"

"The military? Dunno."

"I'm sure they'd love to waste their time on that." The last package has the address sticker slapped on, and she piles them up in the post bin. Still full, packages precariously balanced on each other; nothing's been picked up the last couple of days.

 

 

*

 

 

"I've been thinking about painting the living room green. It's supposed to be a soothing color and shit. And it's not like the fumes matter."

Mikey spoons more ice cream into his bowl. Bunny approached his chair, nosing at his feet. He lifts her into his lap, and lets her lick the spoon clean.

"Looks like she wants company."

"Yeah, they've all been pretty sociable lately."

"Our bed has turned into an animal shelter," Alicia says.

"Have you heard anything from Brian?" Alicia adds, and Jamia can detect the worry in her voice. Mikey looks away intentionally.

She'd been avoiding him but it hadn't crossed her mind that he might've been avoiding everyone else.

"No, haven't really--I don't think you should worry though. I'm sure he'd say something first--" She can't finish the sentence, unsure of whether even she would--if she will.

Alicia nods, as if she understands, but doesn't agree. Jamia hugs them both tightly before leaving.

Jamia forces herself to smile one last time, straining to make it look sincere, and says, "I think green will look great."

 

 

*

 

 

There's dog hair covering the sofa and her bed when she comes home; a trail of puke in the hallway, watery and red. Texas looks guilty, eyes droopy and tired.

All the dogs' bowls are still filled with kibble.

 

 

*

 

 

The line into the office is only about ten people long. Jamia doesn't recognize anyone, not even the man behind the counter.

He has graying hair, and no wedding ring. She can't stop fidgeting with her own, turning it around her finger.

He hands her some papers, a long list of side effects listed, an encouragement to please not ingest in public, and she almost wants to laugh at the sight. It would be inappropriate, but she's not sure if that even matters anymore. She signs, and waits for her turn.

The nurse doesn't even look at her when handing her the pills, slipping them into a brown envelope. As if having them in plain sight would be too depressing.

 

 

*

 

 

Jamia keeps her thumb on the doorbell button, the automated ringing echoing all the way into the hall.

" _Brian_." She kicks the door audibly, giving up on the ring. "Hey asshole, if I find out you checked out before saying anything I'm going to fucking kick your ass so hard you're going to wish you'd stick around for the radiation to hit. Bitch." She pounds the door, barely hearing a click under the dull sound of her fist against the wood.

The door handle gives way when she presses down, and she steps in, noticing his slow movements in the room as he heads to the couch, dropping down. She speaks louder. "Alicia says you won't pick up or answer."

There are bottles on the table. He's lying on the couch. She says, "Brian?" taking a few steps into the room.

The television's on, the same gritty talk show reruns as on hers, running non-stop. The syndicated programming still hasn't run out of the steam, even without someone at the helm.

"Is that what you think they're doing? Living it up with drugs, and maybe some hookers? An eightball or two. It's not like they can't afford it, right?" Her eyes are burning now, and her voice is loud, really loud. It surprises her and she holds back, her habit of not wanting to disturb the neighbors digging at her. _Don't take out your problems on someone else._ "Is that what you think Gerard's doing? Sitting in some bar getting shitfaced? Throwing up only so he can drink some more?" It's more calculated now, she hopes it stings, it better fucking sting.

"I don't think he's doing anything," he says, his voice low and raw. He's still not looking at her, but it's more deliberate now; not like he can't face her, more like he doesn't want her to see him. Like he wants her to feel guilty. As if she doesn't already. "None of 'em."

"I don't. I don't have time for this." She's distraught now, tears no longer burning her eyes. She wipes at her face, muscles tense. Her jaw hurts from the screaming. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Brian. You should. You should be fucking ashamed."

 

 

*

 

 

Jamia notices a couple holding hands on the bridge on her drive home.

As she passes them they disappear, bodies folding over the edge of the horizon.

She almost steers off into the wrong lane after that, car swerving and eyes fixed on the spot the people stood seconds ago. She has to do a double-take, turning her head so far her neck hurts, watching the empty pedestrian lane. Her arms are shaking, and she has to stop herself from letting the wheel shake under her palms.

 

 

*

 

 

Even the dial tone is gone now.

Jamia keeps her phone off the hook just in case.

 

 

*

 

 

She drives to the vet in the morning, all the dogs crammed in backseat. It's hard to get them, but not because they're fighting. They're meek and silent; it's more unnerving than if they barked all the way.

There isn't any turning back now.

 

 

*

 

 

Brian opens the door after the first ring.

She didn't intend to drive there, really. But she couldn't bring herself to go to an empty house, kibble still on the kitchen floor and unopened mail addressed to Frank. The kind of emptiness that isn't supposed to be permanent.

She still has the collars in her hands, and Brian doesn't say anything, letting her in with heavy moves. His face is swollen and tired, and he looks apologetic, arm embracing her back and hugging her tightly. The bottles are still on the coffee table, lined up exactly as they were when she last left. She can't ask about it.

She doesn't let go of the collars until they go to bed, even then only leaving them on the nightstand. In sight, the only remaining proof of her family.

Brian's hands are at her sides, stroking. She's still wearing her bra, and he makes no move to take it off; his fingers move up against her ribcage, pressure increasing, and down again, almost touching the small of her back.

He does this again, and again, it's comforting and familiar.

She's lying directly on top of him, forehead resting under his chin and it's all she can do to breathe in and out, in the same rhythm as his strokes.

 

 

*

 

 

She wakes up still tired, legs twisted in the sheets. Brian's envelope is still on the nightstand, next to the collars, unopened.

Brian isn't anywhere to be found, and the only indication that he was there at all is a note on the fridge, reading "Don't forget to lock up."

She hesitates before locking the door, an opened bottle of tequila heavy in her fist, and Brian's envelope burning in her pocket.

 

 

*

 

 

Jamia can't bring herself to go home. She started drinking in the parked car, having popped the pill into her palm. She almost slips when she gets out of her car, the grass wet under her sandals, she panics for a second, worried that she might lose the pill in her fist. She squeezes it and lets her nails dig into her palm as the small hard capsule makes itself felt.

She lets her knuckles go white as she tenses her fist; it's a wonder the pill doesn't burn right through it. Her skin is raw from having been scrubbed clean at Brian's apartment, washing away the sweat and touch and words. Her hair is still wet from the shower, but her shirt still smells like him.

Spots of bright white still dominate the skyline, blinding her. Orange and pink bleeding into the image, the more color the more pollution, she remembers from school. The rest of the landscape is gray; lifeless. It makes her feel queasy; stomach hollow, and she swallows, throat dry.

She rolls the pill in her palm crumbling the envelope into her pocket, and waits.

 

 


End file.
